


In Her Own Skin

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Baby, Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 07:29:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8835685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: When someone says they love you just as you are, it's a good idea to take them at their word.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Because you _know_ it had to bug him, had to make him feel like she just didn't believe him.
> 
> No trigger warnings, per se, but some talk about body acceptance and societal pressures, so if that bothers you, you may want to skip.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not my circus/monkeys.

It had almost been endearing, at first. The shy demurs, the hiding under robes and blankets, the self-deprecating comments when a hint of skin did reveal itself to him.

Now, though? Now it was just bordering on pathology.

He wasn't entirely serious, of course, but as he watched his bride of six months applying mascara at the mirror in the bathroom beside him (and wearing a terrycloth robe closed and cinched tightly at her waist, as if she were swaddled), he could only think how skewed her perception of her own body was.

She seemed to realise just then that he was looking at her, and she stopped and turned her gaze to him, mascara wand still raised as if to cast a spell. "What?" she said. "What's wrong? Why are you staring at me?"

"Can't I appreciate your beauty?" he said.

She snorted a laugh, then went back to applying mascara.

"Bridget," he said, then he turned to come up behind her, placing his hands upon her hips, waiting for her to lower to the makeup wand before he leant and slipped his hands along her waist. He bowed to kiss the hair near her temple, then his fingers reached for the tie at her waist to unfasten it. She pushed away from him, though she was smiling, grasping the front of the robe closed.

"Mark, we have to go to work."

"I know."

"Then what are you doing?"

"You honesty do not have to wrap yourself up like a cloistered nun in front of me," he said.

"I don't want you to see me."

He stared at her in disbelief. "You've got to be joking."

Her mouth gaped. "Why would you say such a thing?" 

Honestly, she looked like she was about to start crying. How could wanting to see more of his beautiful wife's body ever be taken as an insult? "Bridget, I don't get it," he said. "When I said I loved you just as you are, I meant it. Body and soul."

She pursed her lips. He knew that look. She had something to say, but actually applied the reins to saying it.

"Tell me what you're thinking."

"All men are going to say their new wives look terrific as they are. That they don't need to lose a little weight, or tone their bellies."

He could not believe his ears. "And which scientific studies can you cite to back up this preposterous claim?"

"Come on, Mark. No man wants to marry a woman who then immediately starts letting herself go."

"Have you put on significant weight in the last six months somewhere I can't see?"

"Ha! So you're saying you _wouldn't_ love significant weight gain?"

He covered his face with his hand before running his fingers back through his hair. "I didn't say that at all," he said. "I just cannot see any reason for you to justify how you look as 'letting yourself go'."

She held up her hand. "I'm not having this conversation right now, Mark," she said.

"How about later?"

She glared at him, then turned and left the bathroom. He thought it was prudent not to pursue it at that moment. He couldn't, however, stop thinking about it. How healthy could it be for her to view herself in this way? Even allowing for the ludicrous pressures that society places on women to be eternally young and worryingly thin, surely covering herself up (as she had done) in front of her own husband was beyond the pale. Particularly as he had always shown his ample appreciation for her; particularly as he had kissed every inch of her skin. He had no idea how to make her see a truth he already knew well.

………

By the time the evening came around, all was forgotten, at least with regards to the disagreement that morning. He met her at the door then (after she took a little time to 'freshen up'—he understood why she wanted to, even if she looked just fine to his admittedly biased eyes) took her out for dinner at her favourite place, then brought her back home for a little relaxation on the sofa. The telly was on, but in very short order they were barely paying attention, instead sharing kisses, playful and delicate, soon escalating to something a bit more passionate. When his hand slipped up her leg and under the hem of her skirt, she drew away suddenly.

"Let's go upstairs," she said breathily.

"No one's likely to walk in on us," he said with a throaty chuckle, nuzzling into her neck, undeterred in moving up and under her skirt.

"Mark, come on," she said tartly. He sat up, sat back.

"What's the matter?" he said. It wasn't as if they hadn't made out like teenagers on the sofa before, though it was true they usually left it at that until getting to the bedroom. "What if I wanted to have you right here?"

"I would honestly think you were feeling unwell," she said. "Normally you seem to be thinking someone might look in the windows or something."

"Maybe I'm just feeling especially frisky," he said.

In truth, he hoped to avoid their usual routine, her stripping out of her clothes and immediately slipping under the duvet and switching out as many of the lights as possible. At least she seemed to forget all about her body concerns while they were having sex. He hoped to get her to forget about it before and after, too.

She regarded him with suspicion, but got close to him again, placed her hand against his cheek, stroking it with her thumb.

He returned the affection by reaching up and unbuttoning her shirt, then pulling the halves apart. "Mark," she said, her tone inching towards a question. 

He leant and placed his lips where her breasts met.

"Humour me," he said, then pushed his tongue against her skin and down between her breasts. He heard her gasp. He then pushed the shirt off and over her shoulders, then reached to unclasp her bra at the front. He pulled that away from her, too, and feasted his eyes upon her before wrapping his arms around her, covering one of the pert points with his mouth.

He was pleased to hear her soft sounds of pleasure. 

With his hands on her hips, he brought her over to settle on his lap, straddling it, then ran his hands up her thighs again, giving attention to her other breast. This time she voiced no objection, and in fact voiced quite the opposite when he touched between her legs.

He sat up a little, the other hand flat on her back, in order to appreciate how lovely she looked under his ministrations. No, he thought. 'Lovely' was not quite the right word. It barely began to encompass how utterly sensual, seductive, lush, and beautiful she was. How much he wanted her. And yes, he wanted her, ever more desperately by the moment.

Fortunately, she undid his trousers and proceeded to take his relief into her hands. She kissed him hard on the mouth as she rose up enough to descend upon him and take him in fully. He groaned, his hips thrusting up a little in reflex, as she gasped. She arched her back, breaking the kiss, then began rocking in his lap. As she did, he raised his hands to cup her breasts, brushing his thumbs over the sensitive tips. She moaned, increasing her pace until she was riding him as if he were a racehorse.

He began to feel a bit lightheaded, his breath coming unsteadily, but determined to see her climax first. He decided to encourage her further with a thumb pressed between her legs. She cried out, clenching against his hips. Her head fell back and she cried out as she came.

He loved watching every moment of it, running his hands along the soft skin of her waist and sides, feeling the fine bumps raise at the tender touch. 

As she sighed in her satisfaction, he grasped her hips and came, too.

"Oh, God, Mark," she said in a rasp as he pulled her down against him, enfolding her in his arms.

He hadn't quite realised how much he had needed that. Not that he was in any sort of deficit of intimacy with her, but the added intensity of watching her in her rapture helped spur him on. "My beautiful wife," he said quietly.

Subtly, she tensed in his embrace. "Wait a minute," she said, then pushed away enough to meet his gaze, her brows furrowing. "Does this… did this have something to do with… this morning?"

"What do you mean?" he asked. But he did know what she meant, and she knew he knew.

"Oh my God." 

She got to her feet, tugging the skirt's hem down with one hand and feebly holding the front of her shirt closed with the other.

"Now why do you feel the need to do that?" he asked.

"The shirt?"

"Any of it."

"I don't know. I just do."

"And this is why the whole notion is ridiculous," he said.

He knew the moment he said it that he had made a huge mistake, instantly recalling a fatal argument that had once served to split them up. She said nothing, just lifted her chin, turned, and marched out of the room. He got to his feet (still a bit unsteady from the exertion), righted his trousers, then followed her, calling her name.

"I don't really want to talk to you right now," she called back from the bedroom. As he entered, he realised she was in the bathroom with the door shut.

"I'm sorry about that," he said. "But you have to know that I am _never_ criticising how you look when I look at you. I'm in appreciation. Always."

She didn't say anything.

He decided to continue anyway. "I think you're beautiful, whether or not you believe that about yourself. I love every inch of you. I love looking at you. And persisting in hiding yourself, telling me I must be mad for thinking you're perfect as you are, or thinking that I'm somehow lying about it to assuage your feelings… not to make this about me, Bridget, but it hurts. It really does."

He heard no movement in the bathroom. He sighed, then walked away. When he left the bedroom he had no destination in mind, but he ended up in the dim of the sitting room, pouring himself a double shot of scotch, then stood before the window and gazed out into the night as he sipped at it slowly.

There was no answer at the bottom of a tumbler, but for the time being, it was helping calm his thoughts. He didn't know what more to say or do to that could help.

As he set down the tumbler, he noticed something in the window. Specifically, something reflected in the window, the paleness stark against the dark of night. For a moment he wondered if he was hallucinating, because it looked like Bridget, and she looked like she was completely naked.

He turned, and found she was indeed solid and real. And without a stitch of clothing on her body.

"Here I am," she said with a hint of resignation. "In all of my lumpy imperfection."

He smiled, his gaze tracing paths over her body, his approval and desire making itself manifest almost immediately. He came closer to her; he noticed her expression had changed slightly. She looked a bit confused and yet pleased. He reached for and took her hand to draw her closer to him.

"You weren't kidding," she said. 

He grasped her hip with the other hand. "Pardon?"

"The front of your trousers say it all, though honestly, I'm at a loss." There was humour in her voice, though. "There's no faking that reaction."

He felt his own skin flush a little, though he chuckled and brought her into his arms. He ran his hands up her back then down again, then covering her backside with them before squeezing gently.

"You're lucky I like second-hand scotch," she said, then got up onto her toes to kiss him, bringing her arms up around his neck. When he broke from the kiss, she met his eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's a hard habit to break, doubting yourself, doubting that you'll ever look like the models in the magazines."

"Not even the models in the magazines look like the models in the magazines," he said. "They're all airbrushed and slimmed down through trickery. They do it to keep women insecure so that they'll keep buying magazines in pursuit of achieving an impossible goal."

"It's something I know logically," she said. "Gonna take a lot to undo the programming."

"All too happy to help in that," he said, rounding the curve of her arse again, moving to her hips, her waist; one hand moved over her soft, rounded belly, and the other cupped her breast. "Beautiful," he said again.

"Do you think," she said, "that we might have a little equality here?"

"Hmm?"

"I might like to have a good long look at you, husband," she said.

"Give me a few minutes," he said. "I'm in the middle of something."

Before she could ask, he kissed her again, grasping her backside with one hand and slipped the other one over her stomach and down between her legs. She made a soft sound, tightening her arms around him. He stroked and caressed her until she was moaning in his mouth, until he felt her start to waver on her feet.

He drew his hand away, then, with his gaze fixed to her, undid his trouser button and fly and dropped the trousers. He then walked forward—walking her backwards—until her back was against the wall. She reached and tugged his boxers down; he took her around the waist, pulling her against him, grasping her arse again then lifting her up. She clung to him as he reached between them, guided himself, then drove into her, against the wall, with force enough to rattle the frames. He did it again, then again and again, grunting with each of her moans, until she came, and then he did.

He didn't know quite what had gotten into himself, but the way she remained clasped to him, gasping for air, even as he brought her to sit on his lap in a nearby chair, told him she was glad for it, whatever it was.

"That was better than seeing you naked," she said, "but I'll take that too, at some point."

They sat there for a few minutes in a tight embrace, his cheek pressed against hers, her nails raking through his hair, before she pulled back enough to peck a kiss on his forehead and sat upright. It was clear that his attention to her body was making her slightly embarrassed, but to her credit, she made no move to hide herself.

"Come on," he said, sitting upright too. "Let's get you your payback."

As she got to her feet, she smirked. "Well, my love, you're halfway there."

It was true—only his shirt remained. He chuckled a little, then rose, gathering up his discarded clothing.

Once in the bedroom, she came up to him and began to unbutton his shirt. He chuckled; she pushed the shirt off of his shoulders, then ran a finger along the edge of his vest, along the collar, as she raised her gaze to his. 

"Maybe I ought to institute clothes-free weekends," he said.

She giggled. "What's good for the goose…"

"Truly," he said.

He slipped out of the shirt and they stood there, face to face.

"You know," she said. "I don't tell you often enough, but you're quite beautiful in your own way."

He laughed a little. "In my own way?"

"You know what I mean. Male bodies aren't quite the same. They're a bit more angular, mostly."

"I'm hardly that angular."

"You still play your five-aside."

"Not often enough," he said. He took her face in his hands. "Besides, it's not about being fit-perfect. It's being happy in your own skin, and I want you to be happy however you are, because I love you, however you are."

"You're going to make me cry, you clod," she said. "I don't deserve you."

"No, you don't," he teased, then kissed her. "Well. No more than I deserve you, anyhow."

"You're lucky you clarified that bit." She was chuckling, too, but then her smile faded. "Promise me something. Promise me that you won't get too annoyed when I backslide, because I probably will."

"I'll try," he said. "If you don't mind me gently reminding you that you are."

"It's a deal," she said. "Well. We're in our bedroom, we're totally naked…"

"Whatever shall we do about it?" he asked, taking her into his arms. He then gave her a long, deep kiss.

She broke away, her eyes shining. "What, you're not in the mood for a little snack in bed?"

"On the contrary, I'm very much in the mood for a little snack in bed," he said.

She grinned and waggled her brows, then turned towards the bed and pulled the bedclothes quickly back before climbing in. He slipped in behind her and, before she could turn to face him, he had his hand on her hip and was nuzzling into her neck.

They had only been married for half a year, but he hadn't indulged three times in one night in some time. He chalked it up to being energised by her newfound bravery about her body, and he supposed he wanted to show her he'd meant what he said.

Spooned up behind her, with her backside against his groin, his hand moved down to between her legs. She groaned and tilted her head back; he continued to ply her with kisses and gentle nibbles as she moved under his touch. This was, of course, not without its effect on him; his ever-growing arousal pressed more firmly against her.

She pulled him to turn over so that she was fully beneath him, still on her stomach, and after a bit of adjustment, with one arm supporting him, the other hand back and moving between her legs, he drove forward and into her fully. He did so again and again with increasing rapidity as his fingers worked on the nexus of nerves, and within a few minutes, she was crying out his name.

With his lips pressed to her shoulder, then teeth grazing on her skin, he kept moving until he, too, cried out and found utter satisfaction.

"Mmm," she said from within his embrace, after a moment to regain their breath and their senses. "I like this kind of snack. Negative calories."

"And look at you," he said, "not even trying to bury yourself in the duvet."

"Though I am a bit chilled now."

"That's a different story," he said, reaching over to pull the bed covers over them. "I can only do so much."

"You make such a _lovely_ duvet, too," she said with a smirk, "but I'm afraid you're right."

With that she settled into his embrace; soon after that was fast asleep, and rather quickly at that. He liked to think he maybe had something to do with that, body and soul.

………

She was right; she did have moments where she reverted to old habits, but when he pointed them out she had the grace to apologise. Rewarding her with physical affection probably didn't hurt in the least. The power of positive reinforcement. Mark, though… he felt that his reward was the greatest, just in seeing her so happy and comfortable in her own skin. He had to admit, too, that he liked it also for the purely selfish reason that he liked to look at his beautiful wife.

_The end._


End file.
